"Only think of all you have done,

Only think of all you can do;
A false note is really fun
From such a bird as you.
Lift up your proud little crest,
Open your musical beak;
Other birds have to do their best-
You need only to speak."

The nightingale shyly took

Her head from under her wing,
And, giving the dove a look,
Straightway began to sing.

There was never a bird could pass;
The night was divinely calm,
And the people stood on the grass
To hear that wonderful psalm.

The nightingale did not care;
She only sang to the skies;
Her song ascended there,

And there she fixed her eyes.

The people that stood below
She knew but little about;

And this story's a moral, I know,
If you'll try to find it out.

-Jean Ingelow.

THE DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB.

The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold,
And his cohorts were gleaming with purple and gold,
And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea,
When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee.
Like the leaves of the forest when summer is green,
That host with their banners at sunset were seen;
Like the leaves of the forest when autumn hath blown,
That host on the morrow lay withered and strown.
For the angel of Death spread his wings on the blast,
And breathed in the face of the foe as he passed;
And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill,
And their hearts but once heaved, and forever were still.

And there lay the steed with his nostrils all wide,
But through them there rolled not the breath of his pride;
And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf,
And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf.

And there lay the rider, distorted and pale,
With the dew on his brow, and the rust on his mail,
And the tents were all silent, the banners alone,
The lances uplifted, the trumpet unblown.

And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail,
And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal,
And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword,
Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord!
-Lord Byron.

"SWEET AND LOW."

Sweet and low, sweet and low,

Wind of the western sea,

Low, low, breathe and blow,

Wind of the western sea!

Over the rolling waters go,

Come from the dying moon, and blow,

Blow him again to me,

While my little one, while my pretty one, sleeps.

Sleep and rest, sleep and rest,

Father will come to thee soon;

Rest, rest, on mother's breast,

Father will come to thee soon;

Father will come to his babe in the nest,

Silver sails all out of the west

Under the silver moon:

Sleep, my little one, sleep my pretty one, sleep.

-Alfred Tennyson.

(By permission of Houghton, Mifflin & Co., Publishers.)

THE WAY FOR BILLY AND ME.

Where the pools are bright and deep,
Where the gray trout lies asleep,
Up the river and o'er the lea,
That's the way for Billy and me.

Where the blackbird sings the latest,
Where the hawthorn blooms the sweetest,
Where the nestlings chirp and flee,
That's the way for Billy and me.

Where the mowers mow the cleanest,
Where the hay lies thick and greenest;
There to trace the homeward bee,
That's the way for Billy and me.

Where the hazel bank is steepest,
Where the shadow falls the deepest,
Where the clustering nuts fall free,
That's the way for Billy and me.

-Hogg.

THE ARAB'S FAREWELL TO HIS HORSE.

My beautiful! my beautiful! that standeth meekly by,

With thy proudly-arched and glossy neck and dark and fiery

eye,

Fret not to roam the desert now, with all thy winged speed;
I may not mount on thee again—thou'rt sold, my Arab steed!
Fret not with that impatient hoof-snuff not the breezy wind-
The farther that thou fliest now, so far am I behind;

The stranger hath thy bridle-rein-thy master hath his goldFleet-limbed and beautiful, farewell; thou'rt sold, my steed, thou'rt sold.

Farewell! those free, untired limbs full many a mile must roam To reach the chill and wintry sky which clouds the stranger's home;

Some other hand, less fond, must now thy corn and bed prepare, Thy silky mane, I braided once, must be another's care!

The morning sun shall dawn again, but never more with thee Shall I gallop through the desert paths where we were wont to

be;

Evening shall darken on the earth, and o'er the sandy plain.

Some other steed, with slower step, shall bear me home again.

Yes, thou must go! the wild, free breeze, the brilliant sun and sky,

Thy master's home,—from all of these my exiled one must fly; Thy proud dark eye will grow less proud, thy step become less

fleet,

And vainly shalt thou arch thy neck thy master's hand to meet.
Only in sleep shall I behold that dark eye, glancing bright ;—
Only in sleep shall hear again that step so firm and light;
And when I raise my dreaming arm to check or cheer thy
speed,

Then must I, starting, wake to feel,-thou'rt sold, my Arab steed!

Ah! rudely then, unseen by me, some cruel hand may chide, Till foam-wreaths lie, like crested waves, along thy panting

side:

And the rich blood that's in thee swells, in thy indignant pain, Till careless eyes, which rest on thee, may count each started vein.

Will they ill-use thee? If I thought-but no, it cannot be-
Thou are so swift yet easy curbed; so gentle, yet so free:
And yet, if happy, when thou'rt gone, my lonely heart should

yearn

Can the hand which casts thee from it now command thee to return?

Return' alas! my Arab steed! what shall thy master do

When thou, who wast his all of joy, hast vanished from his view?

When the dim distance cheats mine eye, and through the gathering tears

Thy bright form, for a moment, like the false mirage appears; Slow and unmounted shall I roam, with weary step alone, Where, with fleet step and joyous bound, thou oft hast borne

me one;

And sitting down by that green well I'll pause and sadly think, "It was here he bowed his glossy neck, when last I saw him drink!"

When last I saw thee drink!-Away! the fevered dream is o'er

I could not live a day and know that we should meet no more!.

They tempted me, my beautiful!-for hunger's power is strongThey tempted me, my beautiful! but I have loved too long. Who said that I had given thee up? who said that thou wast

sold?

"Tis false-'tis false, my Arab steed! I fling them back their gold!

Thus, thus, I leap upon thy back, and scour the distant plains; Away! who overtakes us now shall claim thee for his pains!

-Caroline Norton.

THE CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE.

Half a league, half a league,
Half a league onward

All in the valley of Death

Rode the six hundred.

"Forward the Light Brigade!

Charge for the guns!" he said:

Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.

"Forward the Light Brigade!"
Was there a man dismayed?
Not, though the soldier knew
Some one had blundered.
Theirs not to make reply,
Theirs not to reason why,
Theirs but to do and die:
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.

Cannon to right of them,

Cannon to left of them,

Cannon in front of them,
Volleyed and thundered;

Stormed at with shot and shell,

Boldly they rode and well,

Into the jaws of Death,
Into the mouth of Hell,

Rode the six hundred.